


Building A Family

by JEAikman



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, So Athos is taking him to Paris and he is going to join the musketeers, This is set just after Athos lost his brother, and much fun and drama will ensue, and the whole having to have his wife hanged thing, so d'Art is 14 as it's set 5 years early, then d'art will meet the others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JEAikman/pseuds/JEAikman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos literally stumbles across the boy in an alley-way, very drunk. They're both lost and lonely - so he decides, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous decision, that he is going to raise this boy and keep him safe, and damn all those who try to stop him.</p><p>Of course, along the way, new friends are made, and new members join the family<br/>"And no, da, for the last time, we do /not/ need a cat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My wonderful beta for this is placeofold on tumblr, so all mistakes are probably mine.

Athos, for the most part, had contented himself with wallowing in misery in the corner of whatever tavern he might find himself in. This one in particular had wonderfully cheap drink, even if it did taste disgusting. The fact of the matter was that he drank it because it was disgusting. His sins, real and horrifying, meant that he did not deserve good wine. He stayed in the tavern until the owner turned him out, and began to stumble back towards his lodgings on unsteady feet, faltering every few steps and cursing when he did so.  
  
Athos’ vision had become so blurred and unfocused that he did not notice the leg that was hanging out from behind a dingy alley way. He tripped and was shocked when a young lad, no more than fourteen years of age, let out a startled yelp at the weight now collapsed over his legs. The boy seemed terrified at first, Athos noticed, but when he realised that it was only a drunkard and not someone more sinister, the boy kicked him off his legs none too gently. Athos rolled off of him limply, which seemed to alarm the boy more than anything else.   
Standing up, the child walked over to Athos’ prone form and shook him. “Monsieur?” He inquired, hoping that the man was indeed just passed out and not dead. “Are you alive?”   
The only answer the boy got was a pathetic groan, as the man rolled over on his side and promptly vomited on the street. The boy stepped back and turned his nose up at the smell, but sighed resignedly.  
  
“I suppose I’ll just have to find another place to sleep, now that you’ve stunk this place up” he grumbled, making to stand up and dust himself off. The boy folded his arms tightly against his chest and stood as tall as he could, Athos noticed, puffing himself up like some young pup trying to defend its territory.   
Athos took a shuddering breath in as he managed to sit, blinking up at the boy while trying to clear his vision. He wiped his mouth of the last traces of vomit and grimaced at the vile taste that remained. As he slowly regained his bearings, Athos turned his attention to the child in front of him.   
  
The boy seemed thin and it was evident that he had been sleeping on the streets for a while, if the smell of him was any indication. That he had the nerve to complain about Athos stinking up the place did not escape his attention. His clothes, though worn and simple, were not those one would expect of a gamin. Nor did the boy seem to have the presence of mind to flee from someone who could be dangerous to him as others who had known the streets for long would. Athos’ eyes darted to the sword that the boy had hung from his belt. It was big for him, though his structure suggested that he would eventually grow into it, and was simply made but elegant. Athos wondered absently how such a boy could come to have such a weapon, and whether this child, who looked as though a stiff breeze would fell him, had stolen it from someone else.   
The lad caught Athos staring at him and his eyes narrowed, shifting his feet and body unconsciously into a defensive stance. It was comical, really. The lad looked no more than thirteen - what did he think he could do against Athos, should the man decide that he was worth the trouble of fighting?  
  
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking, Monsieur” the boy said quietly, his eyes averted as he tightened his grip around the hilt protectively. “It was my father’s”. The statement sounded so proud and quiet, and utterly heartbroken, that Athos nodded him an apology and lowered his eyes in shame at the assumption.   
  
“My apologies. Though I am curious, what has happened that has caused you to be so far from home young man?”, because he could tell the Gascon accent a mile off, and they were quite far from there indeed. Athos watched as the boy’s eyes began to mist over, and as the boy realised what was happening, his eyes narrowed and he turned to look away.   
  
“It’s not any business of yours, Monsieur” he said disdainfully, as he turned back to stare Athos down but Athos could hear the anguish in his voice as plain as day. “My father is dead, my mother and my sister are dead, and my uncle did not want the burden of caring for me, so he cast me out. All I have in this world is what you see here, Monsieur.” The boy did not break eye contact at all, daring Athos to say a word. Athos conceded and bowed his head, heart despairing for the boy who had indeed lost much.   
An uncomfortable silence fell over the pair, each lost in their memories. Finally d’Artagnan broke it. “I will say no more on the matter, Monsieur. I shall leave and let you be on your way. I am sure you cannot wish to stay out here with me all night.”  
  
“Do you have a name, lad?” Athos asked, hit with a sudden desire to extend his conversation with this sad and damaged child, and was surprised when the boy answered without any hesitation at all.   
“Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony, son of the late Alexandre d’Artagnan”. Athos smiled at the way the boy stood taller, and puffed his chest out proudly as he introduced himself. “And you, Monsieur?”  
  
“You may call me Athos, if you wish”. The name still felt strange on his tongue but it was the one he had decided upon, and it was staying with him from now on.   
  
The boy frowned, before laughing at him. “Monsieur”, he exclaimed, his face lighting up for the first time since he had tripped over the lad, “that is the name of a mountain.” Athos nodded, smiling fondly at the boy’s clear amusement. He studied the boy’s face for a while, searching for something before nodding to himself, wondering if he had gone quite completely mad for what he was about to suggest.  
  
“I am heading to Paris in the morning. If you’d like, you could come with me?”   
  
d’Artagnan blinked owlishly at him. Was the man insane as well as drunk, or had he pickled his brain in spirits? He certainly smelled like it. D’Artagnan watched, half hopeful, half suspicious.   
“Why?” He asked, genuinely curious as to Athos’ reasons. He knew that Athos was a man of honour. He could sense it, as he had learnt to sense the danger or hostility in others he had met in his time on the street, but he had never been offered a place before. He had never been offered friendship before.   
  
There were those who were all too eager to offer him “a bed for the night”, and a lifetime with an older sister had given him enough knowledge to know what that meant, and he had run from them as if the devil were at his heels. This was not that though, the young Gascon was sure.  
  
Athos, by contrast, seemed to actually care. Perhaps it was the story of his family - well, not much of the story, the bare bones of it, and even that just barely – that swayed his mind, though d’Artagnan was struggling to comprehend why. The confusion began to show on his face, and Athos smiled up at him from where he was still kneeling, reaching out a hand to place on the boy’s shoulder. To his credit, d’Artagnan forgot to flinch.  
  
“Because” Athos began, his voice regretful and grave. “I know what it is to lose everything”. This was an answer which d’Artagnan could accept, and as he stared at the older man, he saw someone who was full of regret and punishing himself, as if every wrong ever done in the history of man was placed square on his shoulders.   
  
D’Artagnan nodded, reaching out a hand to help the man stand up. He was still a little wobbly, but seemed to have regained most of the control over his limbs.  
  
Athos smiled wryly and dusted himself off, turning to head in the direction of the inn he had been lodging at. Walking forward a few paces, he turned when he did not hear the footsteps of the boy behind him.   
  
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Well, are you coming?”   
  
To his credit, d’Artagnan only hesitated a few seconds longer before hurrying to catch up with him. Athos gave him a faint smile and clapped him on the back, though he didn’t miss the boy’s wince. He made a mental noted that and filed it away to ask about later.   
  
“Let’s get you a warm meal and a hot bath. God knows, you’re dirty enough”. D’Artagnan huffed and shoved him lightly, but it did not have much effect when outshone by the hesitant, but brilliant, smile adorning his face at the mere mention of a bath and the thought of being clean again. Athos was glad of that. Perhaps in raising this boy, in caring for nothing but his health and happiness, he could find his salvation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos takes d'Artagnan back to his lodgings to get him a warm meal and clean him up a bit

When they arrived at the inn, the matron merely raised a questioning eyebrow at the sight of d’Artagnan before shrugging and letting them be on their way up to Athos’ room. Athos paused as he passed her, asking for hot water to be drawn up for a bath for the lad, and some hot soup for the both of them. She huffed about it, but when he pressed some coins into her hand she seemed a lot friendlier. Athos bit back a growl - was no one honest these days?  
  
D’Artagnan stuck close behind him, using Athos as a shield against any stares directed in their direction, eyes darting nervously around the room looking for threats. He did not relax until Athos closed the door behind them, and he nervously looked from Athos to the bed.  
  
“You don’t get to sleep until you’ve had your bath, young man.” He told him sternly. D’Artagnan glared at him, but there wasn’t any force behind it. He was just exhausted, and as nice as a bath sounded, he could see the bed, and he could practically feel the warmth and comfort from halfway across the room.   
  
Athos must have noticed the change on his face because he smiled faintly. “But before all that - I do believe the good lady of this establishment has come to serve us dinner, my lad.” He opened the door again, and took two steaming bowls of… Athos was not quite sure whether it was stew or soup but he did not much care. He took them with good grace and thanked the woman, and handed one to d’Artagnan, who beamed tiredly at him.  
  
Athos did not know whether he should be glad of the boy’s happiness or feel guilty that he had not eaten this well for weeks, from the way he gazed at it so greedily. D’Artagnan looked up at his new companion as if asking Athos’ permission to begin eating. At Athos’ nod, he tucked in, eating at first as if someone would take it away from him at a moment’s notice. Wincing at the way the boy was wolfing his food down, Athos laid a hand on his arm. “Slow down, no-one here will take it from you. You do not want it coming back up again”.   
  
D’Artagnan looked down sheepishly and apologized.  
  
“No need lad,” Athos told him gently, sipping at his own bowl “there’s nothing to apologize for.” He tried to observe the way d’Artagnan acted without seeming like he was staring, but he did not doubt that the boy could feel his eyes on him. “So… Gascony?” He asked once the boy put the bowl down.   
D’Artagnan stilled in his chair and looked away.  
  
“Yes? What about it?” His posture was defensive, as if he were trying to protect himself from an enemy. Athos sighed, disappointed but not willing to press if it made the boy this uncomfortable. After all, who was he to ask the boy to talk about his past, when he himself was too full of fresh grief and betrayal to even consider sharing his own.  
  
“How did you manage to get here from Gascony?” Athos asked, drawing away from his original question, but hoping that it would help ease the boy into his own story. D’Artagnan still looked wary, and paused for a long time, no doubt choosing his words very carefully.   
  
D’Artagnan paused for so long, that Athos assumed that he was avoiding the question, before a quiet voice shocked him out of his stupor. “I… I had a horse, for the first leg of the journey, only the old yellow working nag, we do not…did not own any great horses. I rode hard and fast, but I did not really have any destination in mind. When I got to town and I tried to sell the horse…” He looked away and gritted his teeth. Evidently there was something of wounded pride in that expression and Athos did not have to wait long to find the reason behind it. “They said I must have stolen it, the horse, and so they took it and left me horseless and moneyless. I had thought I might get a fair price on account of her curious yellow coat, but I ended up with nothing.”  
  
“A sorry affair indeed” Athos sympathised. “Still, no matter, that is one which I can soon rectify. Come tomorrow, d’Artagnan, you shall have a horse. You will need one, indeed, if we are to make Paris in good time.” D’Artagnan could not help how his eyes dampened at this stranger’s kindness - how far in debt would he be with this man?  
  
“If you please, sir, what is it that takes you to Paris?” He asked timidly. Athos’ own face clouded over for but a moment, but it was a fleeting shadow, and d’Artagnan wondered if perhaps he had merely fancied such a thing.  
  
“I am going to become a King’s Musketeer.”   
  
All at once, d’Artagnan was filled with a deep admiration. His father had often spoken of his friend, a Gascon like themselves, who had become captain of said Musketeers, and he had wanted nothing more in his childhood than to join them one day. Athos noticed the way the boy was looking at him and shook his head, half-amused by him. “Quite honestly, I am not quite sure how I shall balance taking care of you, and my duties to them.”  
  
“Sir, is Monsieur Treville still captain of the Musketeers?” Surprised at hearing the name from the boy’s mouth, Athos nodded.  
  
“Aye, I do believe so. He is from Gascony also, I hear. Do you know him?”  
  
“Not I, but father spoke fondly of him, and their adventures together as youths.” Athos could not help a smile. Perhaps all should be well after all.   
  
“In that case, I suspect we shall find some way to make the best of things, if your father and he were good friends.” D’Artagnan nodded, but grew sombre and quiet again. Athos realised that it would perhaps be prudent to turn the conversation away from dead relatives, and the timely arrival of the matron with a basin of hot water provided as good an excuse for such a turn as any. D’Artagnan looked from the basin, which had been left just inside the door as the matron excused herself, and then to Athos, and back to the basin again, thinly veiled distain and something altogether different appearing in his eyes.  
  
Athos took the cloth that she had left with it and soaked it in the water, wringing it out a few times before looking at d’Artagnan expectantly.  
  
“Shirt off then” he instructed, “and we’ll get you washed. You must have an awful layer of dirt on you by now.” As d’Artagnan bristled, Athos took note of his easily wounded pride and smiled wryly. That was something he could deal with, and in the scowl that his words had earned him, he caught a glimpse of Thomas as he was when he was but a teen.  
  
When he reached forward to remove d’Artagnan’s grimy shirt, disregarding the boy’s protest, he was met with a reaction more in tune with a wounded animal. His eyes flashed up to the boy’s face in realisation, and he dropped his hands away from d’Artagnan gently and carefully.  
  
“Lad…” He spoke softly, crouching so that he did not intimidate the boy. He reached out slowly and gently, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and waited until he meet his eyes. “If you are hurt, I need to know. You must not be afraid to show me, it will be alright.”   
  
Moments passed, and Athos waited, not letting his gaze waver as d’Artagnan searched his face for something. He seemed to find whatever he was looking for and he nodded to himself, sitting on the nearby chair. He nodded once at Athos, and with his permission, Athos continued to remove the shirt, though this time carefully, taking into consideration the injuries he strongly suspected lay under the boy’s shirt. Athos noticed that d’Artagnan did not raise his arms any further than he had to, and as he removed the last of the tattered shirt, he soon saw why.   
  
The dirt on d’Artagnan’s body did not hide any of the dark bruises under his skin. The entirety of his torso was painted black, blue and yellow underneath the grime, and several muddied cuts littered his skin. If Athos had to guess, they seemed to be the result of particularly harsh blows. The boy had been beaten, without mercy, multiple times.   
  
Athos bit back a growl at the obvious cruelty, but d’Artagnan must have seen the fury in his eyes, and he shuffled back slightly in his chair involuntary, curling up slightly as if to make himself a smaller target. Athos sighed and gently tossed the shirt to the side, picking up the wash cloth again.  
  
“d’Artagnan…” He spoke as if to an infant, full of care and the utmost gentleness, “It’s alright, lad. I’m just going to get you nice and clean - that’s alright, isn’t it?” He waited until the boy had relaxed once more, and nodded his assent before beginning to tentatively wipe at the dirt and grime which had formed a thick layer over his skin.  
  
Every so often his efforts would gain him a pained gasp or a half-sob that d’Artagnan attempted to stifle, and he would murmur reassurances and apologies all the while. Once he was done, Athos could see the full extent of the damage, which was concentrated around d’Artagnan’s ribs. When Athos checked, they did not seem to be broken though, thankfully, just severely bruised. Still, one could not be too prudent, so Athos decided that wrapping them would be the wisest course of action. He stood slowly, walked to his pack and collected up a few of the wads of wrapping material he had purchased on his way to Paris.   
  
That done, and with d’Artagnan bearing it with a quiet dignity that was admirable in a man but worrisome in a lad of fourteen, Athos found a pain draught from his pack and gave it to the boy.  
  
“Here, you will rest easier for it.” He assured him.   
  
Trusting, now that he was tended to, that Athos truly wished only the best for him the Gascon took the potion, downed it with a grimace, and gave him back the bottle turning towards the comfort of the bed. He seemed half asleep already as he crossed the room slowly, and would have fallen upon it with a loud thump had Athos not caught him and lowered him down gently, before covering him with the rough blanket.   
  
He breathed deeply and slept easily, which Athos was thankful for. No doubt he had enough to dream of, but the Musketeer-to-be had hope that d’Artagnan’s rest would be untroubled by horrors this night.   
  
Satisfied, Athos disposed of the water out of the window and left the basin outside their door before settling down at the foot of the bed to sleep himself. Tomorrow they would set about finding a horse for d’Artagnan, and then they would journey onward to Paris, leaving their pasts behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this was beta-ed by the wonderful placeofold :)  
> Next chapter should be done soon. (spoilers: d'Art gets to choose a horse)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but both I and my lovely beta, placeofold have been busy with our real world lives. Apologies for that, and I hope you enjoy!

When d’Artagnan woke in a bed, feeling the warm sunlight on his face, he forgot for a moment that his parents were gone and that he was far from home. When he felt a hand shaking his shoulder gently he just groaned into his pillow and grumbled “Five more minutes, pa”.  
  
The hand froze, and there was a sigh from above him, a sigh did not sound anything like his father.   
The memories came crashing back down and he opened his eyes to see Athos looking worriedly over him. D’Artagnan blinked back the tears that threatened and stung at his eyes as he sat up and rubbed them.   
  
“Monsieur Athos”, he greeted the man, who merely cleared his throat and mercifully looked away as d’Artagnan attempted to compose himself.  
  
“Happier times?”  
  
“Hmmm.” He agreed noncommittally, before adding quietly, “Sometimes they’re worse than the nightmares.”   
  
Athos tilted his head in agreement before slamming his head into a bucket of cold water. D’Artagnan could not help but laugh at the sight.  
  
“I almost forgot you had been drinking last night”, d’Artagnan said quietly when Athos lifted his head from the bucket, hair dripping, to glare half-heartedly at him. “You seemed so… well, not like other drunks that stumbled across me on the street, at any rate.”  
  
As he said this, his hand unconsciously rubbed at his side. It felt so much better than it had the night before, thanks to Athos’ help, but he still grimaced in pain when he sat up and kicked his legs over the bed.  
  
Athos paused, however pretended not to notice. “No, I don’t suppose I am. I’m rather new to the habit, you see, so I am quite unfamiliar to how a drunkard ought to behave”.  
  
He shook his head to remove the excess water and then dressed himself and firmly attached his sword to his waist.   
  
“Can you use your sword, boy?”   
  
d’Artagnan’s face reddened and he shook his head. “Not well. Father only taught me a little before… b-“. His lip quivered and he bit it to keep the tears from spilling out.  
  
“Alright”, Athos said in a soft voice, “that’s alright. I only meant that perhaps I could begin teaching you? I have often been commended on my excellent swordsmanship”. D’Artagnan was surprised he said this with not an inch of arrogance, and just the right amount of pride. In his experience, those with great skill in the sword did not usually hold themselves back from boasting about their talents to all and sundry. Though the majority of those men were from wealthy or noble houses, houses that had the means to train their sons to be strong swordsmen, and that made the young Gascon curious.  
  
“Are you a nobleman, Athos? Is that why you won’t tell me your name?”   
  
The man in question turned and raised an eyebrow, but he was frowning. “Is it truly that obvious?” He asked.   
  
D’Artagnan smiled and rolled his eyes. “Only to anyone who can see you. It’s in the way you walk - when you aren’t blind drunk of course. Also, you talk like a gentleman. All proper like.”  
  
“And you sound like a Gascon”, Athos retorted, a soft smile gracing his face, enjoying this easy banter even if it was at his own expense.  
  
“Ah, but I am not attempting to hide that I am a Gascon. I imagine you have reasons, which are your own of course, as mine are my own, for running from your life.” D’Artagnan conceded. “Still, you look like a scruffy farm dog with your hair like that - perhaps that is disguise enough.”  
  
“You are mistaken in thinking that I am running from an assailant - I am not.” His voice was tired and defeated, and d’Artagnan regarded him carefully for a while, worrying at his lip and narrowing his eyes when Athos refused to meet them.  
  
“Hmmm. You said something about a horse, earlier, did you not?” d’Artagnan asked, deciding not to pursue the matter any further, they had known each other for hardly a day after all. Relieved, Athos gave him a short nod.  
  
“Yes, I do believe that I did. Are you well enough to walk to the stables? Or shall I let you stay here whilst I collect your mount?”   
  
D’Artagnan glared, but Athos saw in his eyes a half-hidden fear. He silently cursed himself when he realised what he had suggested.   
  
“I’m not going to leave you on your own, Charles. I promise I’ll take care of you.” _Like you took care of Thomas? Look how well that turned out_ , the traitorous voice inside his head reminded him. Athos groaned, half wishing for the numbness that drink gave him, but it was morning, and he had a child in his care now. He should at least try to be responsible, for sake of the boy.  
  
  
D’Artagnan nodded, trusting to Athos’ words. It would take him time to get used to him, and his oddities, but he knew by now that the man would not hurt him. He knew that, so why was it so horrendously difficult to make himself accept it? He was frustrated with himself, but he couldn’t help his inherent distrust of people. Still, he was determined to make this work, as it was the best chance he had of any sort of normal life.  
  
  
Pressing past Athos, d’Artagnan turned to make sure he was following. “Come on,” he urged, a careful smile adhered to is face. “I know exactly where the stables in this town are.”   
  
The forced brightness in his tone made Athos’ gut lurch. From d’Artagnan’s earlier story, these were the same people who stole his first horse, and if she was anything like the useless nag d’Artagnan had made her out to be, she had probably already gone to the slaughter. Not only had they stolen his animal, but they had beaten him - beaten him so badly that his entire torso was painted black and blue and he flinched away every time someone so much as looked in his direction. Athos felt the beginnings or a warm rage settle in his chest, simmering, as he followed the boy out of their lodgings and through the town towards the stables.   
  
_________________________  
  
There was nothing Athos wanted more in this moment than to punch the man who approached them as they looked at the available horses. When the large, filthy man firth appeared, d’Artagnan flinched and subtly moved so that Athos was between him and the man who beat him, trembling slightly.  
  
“Good day, Monsieur - are you and your son looking to buy some horses?” D’Artagnan stilled at that, and looked up uncertainly at Athos, who gave him a small nod as indication that everything would be alright. Clearly the man hadn’t recognised him now that he was washed and in clean clothes - the boy scrubbed up rather well, thought Athos absently. He felt d’Artagnan relax slightly, his spine lengthening like steal at the reassurance, holding himself proudly.   
  
“Yes,” he answered smoothly, “but just for my son here.”  
  
“And what would the little lad like? I’ve a placid little grey mare-“  
  
“I’ll take the bay gelding with the two back socks, if you please, sir.” D’Artagnan told him, barely concealed venom in the boy’s voice as he stood tall and proud next to Athos, not looking away from him, not even flinching when the man bent down to look him in the eyes.  
  
“Tha’s no a horse fer a boy, lad. The mare would be better” the man insisted, but d’Artagnan would not be swayed.  
  
“That mare is half-blind and her left foreleg is sprained. I won’t be had, monsieur. I’ve been around horses all my life, so you might as well give me the bay before things turn ugly.”   
  
The man drew himself up to his full height and sputtered. “You! Boy, you dare to threaten me?”   
  
He reached forward to grab d’Artagnan by the collar, but soon found a sword levelled at his throat.   
“It’s you…the little horse thief!” Evidently, he recognised d’Artagnan’s defiance better than he recognised his face.  
  
“I believe my lad asked for the bay gelding. You would do well to give it to him, and therefore avoid any… unpleasantness.” Athos’ sharp gaze pierced the man and he was forced to look away. Athos did not lower his sword until the man turned to collect the horse. He met d’Artagnan’s gaze and gave him a small nod and a smile, at which the boy’s face.  
  
“And the only thief here is you. You stole from this boy the only thing he had left of his home - perhaps it was just an ugly yellow mare, but such a horse is better than nothing. So, we shall take the bay as recompense for your theft, and you will not receive a penny from us.” He leant towards the man again, and pressed his sword against his throat. “Do not think I won’t kill you if you so much as touch him again - understood?”   
  
The man, still staring and the sword, nodded and handed the reins over to d’Artagnan, careful not to make any direct contact with the boy.  
  
“Good. Now run along, and do your business whilst we attend to ours, and we can forget all this ever happened.” With that, Athos helped d’Artagnan up onto the horse and walked by his side, leaving a very stunned horse dealer in their wake.  
  
As they travelled further away from the stables, Athos noticed D’Artagnan gripped onto the mane of his gelding for dear life, nearly hyperventilating in his delayed panic.   
  
“Easy, easy there lad, enough. It’s over. He’s gone. By this time tomorrow we shall be in Paris, and you will never have to see that man again.”   
  
He placed his hand on the boy’s thigh reassuringly whilst d’Artagnan got his breath back under control, and murmured quietly, “That was very brave of you. Your parents raised a fine lad.”   
D’Artagnan’s breath caught in his throat, and he hardly trusted himself to speak. “I… right. Thank you.”   
  
They walked the rest of the way in relative silence after that, the soothing repetitive motion of the horse’s walk helping d’Artagnan to calm himself down.  
  
“Are your ribs bothering you?” Athos asked softly. D’Artagnan shook his head, smiling at his concern.  
“I am well enough to ride. Probably not at anything more than a nice easy canter, but we aren’t in too great a hurry, I hope?”   
  
Athos shook his head as they returned to the inn and gave the horse to a stable hand whilst they collected their things and Athos paid for their stay.  
  
“Will everything really be alright now?” d’Artagnan eventually asked when they were on the road towards Paris. For a long while, Athos was quiet, considering his words carefully.  
  
“We can never know what the future brings, my lad - but I hope so, by God for both of our sakes, I hope so.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porthos is on patrol, Treville has lost a dear friend, and Aramis is just generally wonderful.

It wasn't necessarily that Porthos minded being on patrol - he didn't, not really. It was far more enjoyable than having to be on parade at the palace. Good Lord. He could definitely see just why so many people wished to assassinate the king. Not that he agreed with them, of course, but the way that the complete idiot prattled on - was it treason to think the reigning monarch a complete and utter buffoon? Probably, but as long as he didn't say it out loud, he wasn't sure how thinking it could hurt any.

It was always a shock to his system, still, to see the utterly wasteful lavishness of Louis' lifestyle, compared to his own youth, staying alive by stealing and fighting - every day a struggle for survival. He had always known that there was a gap between the rich and poor, and it was only in serving the most spoiled brat in Europe that he found out it was in actual fact a gaping and insurmountable chasm, in the depths of which flowed a river of fire to consume those who dared attempt to cross it.

He was drawn out of these musings by the sound of metal clashing against metal - swords. Now, if he were a proper upstanding soldier, he might feel obligated to bring whoever it was in to be hanged - but as he was not, and had seen too many good men hanged for less, both when he was part of the Court and as a Musketeer, he decided he was just going to take a look, and, provided whoever it was were causing no undue havoc, then he'd let them be. Maybe even watch. It had been a while since he had seen a good fight, anyway. Nodding to himself, he moved towards the noise as quietly as he could.

 

What he found when he followed the noise, though, was altogether unexpected. He paused to watch the pleasant surprise of a man teaching a young lad, barely out of childhood, by the looks of him, how to properly hold and use his sword. He had no idea whether they were father and son or perhaps, since there was no great resemblance, a distant relative chosen to coach him on the finer points of swordsmanship. Porthos wasn't really that bothered either way, because the look on that boy's face as he was instructed on the proper stance, with the man constantly complaining that one leg was too far back, or they were not far enough apart, was a look he remembered being on his own face the first time he'd ever met a Musketeer, and had wanted with all his heart to be one. He turned away and left them to their practice. They weren't bothering anyone, so why should he bother them?

 

***

 

When he returned to the garrison, it was to find Marsac attempting to convince Aramis to go out amongst the best whorehouses in Paris and enjoy himself. There had been many attempts, with varying amounts of success, depending on how much Aramis had drank before the suggestion was made. Porthos knew it was Marsac's way of cheering up his friend, but still, something in Porthos didn't quite trust Aramis' friend, if only for the fact that he talked about those who were employed in the establishments he frequented as if they were less than human. Aramis, at least, knew to treat a lady with kindness and respect. But he was young, so perhaps he could learn better in future. Tonight though, it seemed that Aramis was not in the mood for the company of the fairer sex.

"Porthos! Come and rescue me from his persistence! He's not left me be all night." Porthos grinned. Good. That meant that Aramis would be more likely to join him in a tavern for a few drinks than run off for a wild night tonight.

"Marsac, lay off, you arse, and let Aramis be." The other man huffed and walked off, shooting a glare in Porthos' direction, which he just grinned at in reply. He patted Aramis on the shoulder on his way to the stairs. "I'll just check in with the Captain, and then we'll head to the tavern, and I'll take all your money in a game of cards." Aramis snorted, but caught his hand as he was about to go up to report in. "What?"

"The captain's recieved some bad news today. A friend of his from Gascony's been murdered. Him and his whole family." Porthos stared at him for a moment, before nodding.

"That why you wanted to stay 'ere then?" He asked, and Aramis nodded. Porthos sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Righ' then. I don' suppose he'll want to say much about it, so I'll just go up, tell 'im nothing was out of order, streets were clear of fightin' and I only saw a man teachin' his kid t' fight on the outskirts o' town."

He made his way up the stairs and knocked on the door, waiting for the captain's shout. Instead, the man himself answered the door. He looked completely wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had quite obviously been crying. He seemed confused.

"Porthos what..." he trailed off, blinking.

"I just came to report that I found nothing unusual on my patrol, sir." Treville straightened himself up and nodded.

"Very well, Porthos. Thank you. You're free to do as you like for the night." It was obviously a dismissal, but it held none of the usual authority wielded by the captain of the Musketeers.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but if I'm to do as I wish, then I figure keepin' you company will do as well as any other way to spend the night." Treville almost looked like he was about to throw him out for his insolence at suggesting such a thing, but he deflated suddenly, and there was no fight left in him. This disturbed Porthos beyond measure. The captain ended up inviting him in and closing the door behind him. From how he looked, Porthos was quite sure he was going to get the full story, and he would listen to that full story, even if it meant he was there all night.

Treville seemed to have resigned himself to the idea of Porthos making himself at home in his office, so he simply shrugged and dug around in his cabinets for where he kept the good brandy. He wasn't one to drink often, but tonight he felt it was justified. He'd just learned that a man who had been a friend throughout his youth, and well into their soldiering days, had been brutally murdered.

"Alexandre d'Artagnan was a great man. He was my dearest friend for the longest time, from our boyish days in Gascony to when we were soldiers together on the field. But when he met Celeste, he knew he couldn't be a soldier anymore. He loved her too much to put her through being the wife of a Musketeer. So they moved back to her family's farm, and they were happy, and they had children. They had _children_ , Porthos." He repeated it, as if the horror of it needed in any way to be emphasised. The young Musketeer just nodded sagely, deciding to let the captain speak without interruption. "There oldest daughter Amelie was to be married in spring. The last lett- the last letter he ever sent me, he was gushing with joy over the news, that his dearest child would be marrying " a proper gentleman". The poor boy who was her intended was the one who wrote me the news. Can you imagine, being on the verge of such joy, only to have it ripped from you so cruelly?" He took another swig of his brandy, "but at least she was an adult. Her brother and sister, however... the boy, Charles would have been fourteen tomorrow, and little Celine was only nine."

"Dieu. How... that is to say..."

"Was it quick, did they suffer?" Treville finished for him, shaking his head. "I don't know. No one knows. They only found the bodies after the fire was put out. Well, what was left of the bodies, anyway." Porthos shuddered. That poor family.

"Was there anything, any clues...?" He ventured to ask, but the captain shook his head sadly. "Sweet Mary and Jesus." Treville snorted half-heartedly, leaning on the table, and his eyes had started drooping. Porthos nudged him to wake him up. "We should get you back home to that wife of yours, sir." Treville nodded, probably only half hearing his soldier, but he stood and Porthos followed him out the door and down the stairs, where Aramis was still waiting. They shared a look and the younger man fell into step beside them both, and they made sure that the captain made it home safely. His wife thanked them, and they told her they understood when she tried to apologize for her husband's melancholy.

"Perhaps we could head to my apartments - I have some good wine stashed under the floorboards for depressing occasions such as this" Aramis offered with a grin.

"Aramis, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were attempting to seduce me with an offer like that, you rake." His friend merely smirked, but there was something in his eyes that Porthos couldn't quite read.

"Oh, my darling Porthos. Whenever I do decide to seduce you, I promise you that you'll know it." He replied, and Porthos wasn't going to admit how that made his heart jump just a little. "But just now, let's drink, and avoid thoughts of dead children who should have lived much longer."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and d'Artagnan arrive at the Musketeers garrison.

There was an ache in d'Artagnan's arms from the hour of strict practice with his sword. Athos was a good teacher, patient, but he did not tolerate laziness. He had put d'Artagnan through his paces, and decided that the boy had some natural talent, but the sword was too large for him at present. Ideally, he would have practiced with something much lighter, but as that was not presently available, they had to settle for what they had. There was an ache in d'Artagnan's legs from the riding, too, but that was a good, familiar ache, and one he could quite happily get used to again. Anything was better than the raw and constant ache which had been in his stomach for the past weeks. If Athos hadn't found him, he would have become even more intimately acquainted with what it was to live on the streets, to starve, to beg, perhaps even to steal, if he had lived long enough to become that desperate.

 

One ache which had lessened significantly was that of his ribs. Oh, he could still feel the bruises, true enough, but he didn't want to curl up and sob until he fainted from the pain. Before opening his eyes, he listened to the crackling of a fire and the spitting of juices which meant meat was cooking. The trap they had set last night before the sword lesson must have caught something. Pulling himself up off of the ground, he rubbed the grit from his eyes and blinked them open. Sure enough, there was Athos, roasting a rabbit which he had already skinned over the fire. Hearing the movement when d'Artagnan shifted, he looked up.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. You've slept for a good while." He told the boy, who nodded, stretching as he stood to loosen up his aching muscles. "I trust your sleep was restful?" d'Artagnan nodded.

"Mmhm. I was too exhausted to dream, so that helped." He helped himself to the water in Athos' cask, which was sat against the log that he sat on whilst he tended to their food. Athos hummed thoughtfully, scratching at his neck just beneath the ear.

"I'd hoped that would be the case. Are your ribs giving you any trouble?" He asked, eyeing the boy for any sign of faltering, "perhaps I pushed practice a little too hard?"

"No, no. They're much better. They hardly hurt at all now, Monsieur Athos." D'Artagnan insisted, and Athos gave him a long, measured look before he accepted his words.

"Alright. If you're sure." He agreed, and tossed an apple to d'Artagnan. "break that in half and give it to the horses, would you? And take them down to the stream to drink. This should be done when you return." D'Artagnan caught the apple in one hand and hurried off to do as he asked. Athos watched after him, glad that today seemed to have started well for the both of them, for though Athos had not slept for long, he had, for the first time in weeks, slept dreamlessly without the assistance of the bottle.

D'Artagnan led the horses to the water without too much trouble. Athos' mount, Roger, tried to bite d'Artagnan's new gelding, but the bay just ignored the other horse and kept drinking. Roger soon followed suit. He brought them back and secured them safely, as he always had with the farm horses growing up, before sitting across from Athos at the fire. The man said nothing, but handed him a bowl full of the rabbit meat, taking a portion of his own and storing the rest in his pack. Who knew when they'd find time to stop at an inn or anywhere today, so it was always better to be prepared.

They sat in silence as they ate, save for when the horses chewed noisily at the grass. D'Artagnan wasn't overly hungry (he'd eaten a whole bowl of soup the night before, after all!) but finished his meal, more for Athos' sake than his own, though he chewed it all thoroughly before swallowing, and was careful to take it slowly, because the last thing he wanted was for it to come back up. Eventually, confident that he could keep it down, he reached over to Athos' cask of water and sipped out of it to wash the taste down, before handing it back to the man and lifting his saddle off the ground to place up on the back of his horse.

 

Athos watched the young d'Artagnan ready the animals with great skill - Roger had always been a spirited animal, but with the boy, he stood still and allowed him to put on and secure his tack without so much as throwing back his head in impatience. He wondered if perhaps there was something in the air of Gascony that bred such fine farmer's lads, but he brushed aside the thought, going down to the stream himself to freshen up and splash the icy water in his face.

When he returned, d'Artagnan had already clambered onto his own horse, holding Roger's reins in his free hand.

"You have a natural seat." Athos observed. D'Artagnan coloured at the praise, turning his gaze to the base of his horse's neck as he handed control of Roger back to Athos, and the man swung up onto his saddle with practiced ease. "We should be in Paris soon, and I believe we should make it to the Musketeers' garrison around noon" he informed d'Artagnan, who nodded.

"I've never been to Paris before."

"I have." Athos told him. "Thought not often, and I spent as little time there as I could. People make me..."

"Uncomfortable?" d'Artagnan prompted, and Athos nodded with a wry smile.

"Nobility is the one quality which is thoroughly uncommon in the class which bear its name."

"A thoroughly scandalous race of creatures, my mother used to say" d'Artagnan chimed in. "There's always some intrigue or scandal. That's why she married a farmer."

"Your mother was a noble?" Athos asked - that could be of use in getting the boy a proper education, if he wanted it. He nodded.

"Yes. Her brother wasn't best pleased by her choice of husband."

"Hmm." Athos murmured, but now he was thinking of _his_ brother. And that was a road he did not want to go down this early in the morning. His hand was already creeping up towards his neck to finger the locket _she_ gave him.

"Is that why your uncle would not take you in?"

"Oh, I didn't even go there. I knew he'd turn me out. I went straight from... I just grabbed the horse and left. Father made me run." He rubbed his eyes, trying to push back the memories. He couldn't afford  to feel it yet, not until they'd reached their destination. "I could... I could hear screaming. But I knew if I went back-"

"You would have been running back to your death." Athos finished for him. D'Artagnan did not answer, but gulped back the sob that he felt rising. Athos leaned over and squeezed his shoulder gently. "I can hardly promise you that everything will be alright, because it very likely won't - if there's one thing I've learned, it's not to plan too far into the future, you never know when those dreams will be put to death."

There was quiet for a long moment, and neither of them spoke until they made it into the city. D'Artagnan was more than impressed by all of the buildings, and the sheer magnitude of the place.

"The houses are so close together! They're attached to each other! That's so strange." Athos smiled behind a gloved hand at his obvious enthusiasm.

"Space is more expensive in a city, so they try to use it as efficiently as possible." He explained. He had not been to the city since Thomas was no older than d'Artagnan, and he only just an adult. "It is always changing, evolving. And not always for the better."

"Well, I think it's amazing." D'Artagnan replied.

"We'll see, once the novelty wears off and you've been here for a few weeks. Come along now, the garrison is this way."

"How do you know, if you've only been briefly?"

"It's not important, Charles." Athos cut across him with a tone that left no room for argument, so d'Artagnan felt chastised as he nodded silently, and made a note not to pry into Athos' past any further than he already had. He turned away to hide the sheen of new-formed tears. He was _not_ going to let himself feel  the sting of Athos' tone of voice, he wasn't going to let it bother him. Clearly the man had demons of his own - and he was just a foolish boy who Athos had been kind enough to put up with. If he said something else, who was to say that Athos wouldn't just leave him to fend for himself again?

 

They approached the Musketeer's garrison, and suddenly d'Artagnan wasn't sure that he wanted to be there anymore - what if Treville didn't like him? What if he didn't _believe_ him?

"Charles," Athos whispered, his tone fond. The boy worried his lip the same way Thomas had always done when he was worried or over-thinking something. "I'm quite sure Treville will be relieved to find the son of one of his dearest friends is still alive." He assured with a small smile, but d'Artagnan still looked doubtful.

"But I... I ran away."

"Would you have, had your father not explicitly instructed you to?" d'Artagnan looked up at him with wide eyes and shook his head, and Athos was relieved that some of the darkness clouding the boy's eyes had lifted. "Well then, there you are. You've been very brave, and I'm quite sure that the good captain will realise that."

"Right," d'Artagnan conceded, though he didn't quite agree.

 

When they arrived, the garrison was quiet, and they were alone other than for three Musketeers sat at a table eating bread and playing cards. D'Artagnan was relieved, as the crowded Paris streets had done little good in curbing any of his anxiety. Athos gave him a measured look, which somehow made him feel like the man knew all his thoughts  - though perhaps he wasn't exactly putting the most effort into hiding how he felt at the moment. One of them looked up from their game and greeted them with a smile.

"If you're lost, sir, we'd be glad to point you in whatever direction you are looking for." The man was all smiles and exuberant flair, and he had a kind eye, d'Artagnan thought, but Athos seemed on guard, so he decided to be the first one to speak.

"Monsieur Athos is not lost - I was, but then he found me, and we're here to find Captain Treville?" He was speaking a little too fast and a little too high-pitched to sound confident, but the man merely smiled at him again. The other two, who had kept playing before now, turned, and d'Artagnan couldn't help a smirk as he saw a card fall to the ground.

"You might want to pick up that king you had up your sleeve, Monsieur, before someone notices." The larger man grinned at d'Artagnan, and the remaining one, who looked, if he was honest, a bit ratty, glared.

"That's the tenth time you've done that, Porthos. Be glad we weren't betting money on this, or I'd-"

"Marsac, think about what you're saying. You know I love you dearly, but Porthos would have you flat on your rear before you'd even drawn your sword." Marsac grumbled at this, and the smiling one rolled his eyes. "You're just mad because it's the truth. Now, where were we. Ah! Introductions. My name is Aramis," he gestured to himself as he said this, and then to the larger man, "this cheater at cards and brawler extraordinaire is Porthos, and grumpy back there is Marsac."

Athos smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the greeting.

"A pleasure, messieurs. My name is Athos, and my young travelling companion, whom I, as he so considerately put it, _found_ , is-"

"I can introduce myself, Athos." He grumbled impetuously. Athos made a gesture which clearly meant _go on, then_ , and d'Artagnan resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. "My name is Charles d'Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony."

Aramis and Porthos looked sharply to each other, with wide eyes. Marsac merely watched, somewhere between bored and curious. D'Artagnan felt himself squirm under the gaze of the Musketeers, but Athos interrupted their scrutiny.

"I take it then, that the captain has been informed of what happened to the boy's family?"  recovering from his shock, Porthos nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Aye. From the letter he received, he thought the lad suffered the same fate. The whole farm was burned to the ground."

"Letter?" d'Artagnan asked, wondering who could have sent a letter to Treville.

"That's right." Aramis told him. "Well, why don't both of you wait here with us? The captain is currently speaking with the King and the Cardinal in some matter of great import. Jacques can see to your horses, if you'd like to play a game of cards with us, to pass the time."

D'Artagnan and Athos both dismounted and gave their horses to the stable boy who appeared out of nowhere at the sound of his name. The horses liked him, so d'Artagnan decided he liked him as well.

"Would you rather go and chat with him whilst I talk to these Musketeers?" Athos whispered in his ear. D'Artagnan nodded.

"Yes. If... if it won't get Jacques in trouble."

"It won't," Porthos assured him, "especially not when the captain sees you, lad." D'Artagnan decided then that he liked Porthos as well - though not necessarily the way that the man tried to ruffle his hair.

"Leave him be." Athos warned, and there was enough warning in his tone that Porthos backed off. As d'Artagnan went to join Jacques in the stables, he sighed. "Apologies, it's just, before I found him- there was a man who -well, the boy has bruises in the shape of boot-prints. So I'd appreciate if there were no sudden moves towards him like that."

Porthos' eyes narrowed and he folded his arms, gripping his arms so tightly they left white marks. "Damn. How long?"

"Was he on the streets? I couldn't say. A few weeks, perhaps. I only found him because I literally stumbled over him where he was sleeping. I was drunk and he was annoyed that he would have to move. It was a miracle I could convince him to come with me at all." He rubbed a tired hand over his face. "This really wasn't how I was planning to come to the garrison at all."

"God works in mysterious ways" Aramis butted in with yet another smile. Athos scoffed at that.

"Does he, now? Have you such faith as all that?"

"No, no. You are not getting Aramis started on fucking religion." Marsac interrupted. "It is far too early in the morning to listen to his fucking sermons in Latin or Greek or Spanish or whatever damned language he feels like speaking the Word of God in. If we're talking about that now, I am going. I am getting my horse and I am going to find something productive to do. Parade duty would be better than listening him to witter on about how there is a plan for all of us. Want to tell that kid that his family are all dead because it was God's Great Plan? Yeah, see how well that goes." They all stared as Marsac left and grabbed his horse from the stables, muttering angrily about "damned pious arseholes".

"Well. That was one way to get rid of him, Aramis." Porthos said eventually into the silence that had been caused by the abrupt departure. "Wonder what made him so grouchy today?"

"Other than the fact _you_ have been goading him all morning, at that was just the final straw which broke the camel's back?" Aramis retorted, his mood considerably soured. "Apologies, Monsieur Athos. That was... quite unusual for Marsac. I'll have to go and buy him some wine and make him tell me what's wrong later." He paused, seeming to listen for something - Athos listened too, and heard the thud-thud of distant hoof beats. "That sounds like it could be the captain. Fetch your boy from the stables?"

Athos wasn't going to admit it, but some part of him felt a possessive kind of pride in the fact that Aramis had labelled d'Artagnan _his_ boy. He pushed it down, though, because that could very well change as soon as they met with Captain Treville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, but I wasn't quite sure where to end it. I also had it planned out completely differently in my notes, but this felt better. And the Inseparables are all in the same space now yay :D Also a wild grouchy Marsac appears.  
> All it needs now is Treville.


End file.
